Feng Zhiming found himself in a small wooden house, modest in its simplicity but comfortable enough. He sat on the edge of the bed, his mind racing as he assessed his situation.
“Let me take stock of my resources,” he murmured, slipping into deep thought as he delved into his storage ring.
The ring was a treasure trove of various items, each one potentially life-saving or utterly useless depending on how the events unfolded. “About fifty third-order demon beast cores, two fourth-order demon beast cores, a set of preserved eyes, a folding fan, three doses of paralyzing toxin potent enough to affect cultivators up to the Spiritual Awakening stage, a cultivation manual, a human skin mask, a decent sum of coins, and a few spirit stones.”
Spirit stones, crystallized Qi from deep within the earth, were invaluable for cultivation, far more precious than mere gold or silver coins. He sighed, thinking of the many other useful items he had left behind in his cave—items that would now go to waste.
“What else do I have here?” He continued to mentally catalogue his possessions: fireworks, an old, unfinished pill recipe, an unhatched egg that he had been scammed into buying, a spiritual compass, and a tattered black robe. “Traveling light might not have been the best idea,” he mused, falling back onto the bed. The spiritual compass caught his attention—a curious item he had acquired while exploring a family’s burial ground without their permission.
The compass, a rare find, could track any thread of spiritual energy, each one unique like a fingerprint. However, its full potential could only be unlocked at the Spiritual Awakening stage, a realm he had not yet reached. For now, it remained another item he couldn’t fully utilize.
He considered his options. Hiding and waiting for the others to kill each other was out of the question—rule number seven forbade idle behavior, and with the longer lifespans of higher-level cultivators, it would be a losing strategy anyway. He couldn’t stay put, but leaving carried its own risks. Shaking hands with anyone was also a dangerous move, given the nature of the assembly.
With a sigh, Feng Zhiming sat up and assumed a lotus position, retrieving one of the fourth-order demon beast cores. The air around him began to hum as he started siphoning the core’s energy.
This was a hallmark of the demonic path—absorbing raw energy directly from materials like beast cores, rather than relying on refined pills or elixirs. His cultivation manual was clear: refining such materials would strip them of their most vital properties, diminishing the Qi they could provide.
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For three days, Feng Zhiming meditated, sweat beading on his forehead as he absorbed the core’s potent energy. He finally stopped when the core was about seventy percent depleted. Though he was on the cusp of breaking through to the Condensed Ethereal Core realm, he held back. He had lingered in the Quasi-Ethereal Core realm for five years, knowing that with greater power came greater challenges.
“Now I can break through at any time,” he thought, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. “Catching my opponents by surprise should be no problem.”
His concentration was interrupted as someone entered the range of his spiritual sense.
“Senior! Grandfather! Grandfath—huff... huff...” Mu Han panted as he barged into the house, breathless from running. “Grandfather has summoned all available Quasi-Ethereal Core disciples to the Fiend Arena.”
A memory stirred in Feng Zhiming’s mind—the Fiend Arena, the sect’s battleground where disciples competed. It was said that all the Primal Demons under the Matriarch’s command had fought there, defeating all their peers before being granted the path to become Primal Demons.
“Do you know why the second elder would summon everyone now, and specifically Quasi-Ethereal Core disciples?” Feng Zhiming asked, his voice measured.
“I heard a rumor that it’s for some sort of mission,” Mu Han replied, still catching his breath.
As they left the house and headed toward the arena, Feng Zhiming’s mind raced. One of the derivatives of his cultivation manual allowed him to think at an accelerated rate by stimulating his neurons with spiritual energy, effectively boosting his cognitive functions. It was a useful technique but one that left him temporarily vulnerable and quickly drained his energy.
“This mission can’t be based purely on strength,” Feng Zhiming reasoned as they walked. “They have Spiritual Awakening experts guarding the gates, so it’s not a matter of manpower. And if it were a general mission for Ethereal Core disciples, they wouldn’t limit it to just Quasi-Ethereal Core cultivators.”
The more he thought, the clearer the situation became. “The key difference between Spiritual Awakening experts and Ethereal Core disciples is divine sense. Divine sense can be easily detected by another of the same level, meaning this must be a stealth mission requiring face-to-face interaction with the enemy.”
Mu Han glanced at Feng Zhiming, noticing his senior brother’s blank stare as he walked. The technique Feng Zhiming was using had a noticeable side effect—his deep concentration left him vulnerable, his body on autopilot as his mind processed information at lightning speed.
“They want disposable tools,” Feng Zhiming concluded. “This mission involves infiltrating enemy lines. With the current information, it’s likely tied to the recent declaration from the orthodox sects. The second elder must be looking for s—”
“Senior brother, we’ve arrived,” Mu Han interrupted, snapping Feng Zhiming out of his thoughts.
They stood before the Fiend Arena, a vast, open space roughly fifty square feet in size. The stone slabs were cracked and worn from countless battles, the air thick with the metallic scent of old blood, a testament to the arena’s violent history.
Feng Zhiming inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the past saturating the air around him. The Fiend Arena had seen the rise and fall of many warriors, its blood-soaked tiles a silent witness to their struggles.